A movie date?
by Head Girl Mione
Summary: John has long awaited the debut of The Hobbit, and has secured himself tickets to the opening night showing. But who can he convince to go with him? My first FF story, its very raw. and not finished. Not sure if I will continue it- but I just had to ramble on about it and post before I lost my nerve.
1. Chapter 1

Movie Date

For John Watson, the day could not get any better. It was a clear and sunny day, he had managed to secure movie tickets to the opening night showing of the first installment of a tale he seemed to know by heart after years of reading and re reading._ The Hobbit_ looked to be an incredible feature film, and John was eager for 10pm –the magical time when he would settle into the squashy theater seats, sip on his ridiculously large drink, and enjoy the beloved tale of Bilbo.

He supposed he should find someone to go with him, as he went through the trouble to buy two tickets instead of one. He hadn't thought about it, just reacted to the attendant when she asked "how many?" But, on deeper reflection, who would attend the showing with him. Sherlock was out- he had been fiddling with some experiments in the flat about the consistency of mold when exposed to deodorant and chilled conditions (The fridge would need an aggressive clean this coming weekend). John decided to run through his mental checklist-not as grand as Sherlock's mental palace, but it was perfectly substantial for John.

Mrs Hudson- preferably not. She would do as back-up, but he felt fairly confident Mrs Hudson would prattle through the whole tale. John wanted nothing more then to be undisturbed as he lost himself in Middle Earth for a few hours.

Lestrade. Potentially a good choice if he was feeling friendly and amiable. John would come back to him.

Donovan- heavens no. John suspected she couldn't very well admire the finesse and story telling that was a crucial part of Bilbo's journey. That and she would likely spend the entire movie trying to convince John how abnormal and strange Sherlock is. John suspected she secretly had other feelings bubbling up behind the heated conversations she would get into when discussing Sherlock. After all, his flat mate had a very striking, and not altogether terrible, appearance. The woman needed to get laid.

Anderson- should be deleted from this checklist. Or perhaps be shoved into Donovan's arms so the two could get down to business and stop making everyone else miserable.

Mycroft- Good one, mental checklist.

At this point in his thoughts, John found himself faced with the locked door of 221 Baker street. He fumbled for his keys, concentration broken, and let himself into the building. The first thing he noticed was the eery silence that hovered in the air. Where was Mrs Hudson? She was usually bustling around her flat- singing, humming, talking to herself, or blaring the radio. Sherlock often tried to drown out her noises with his violin when he was feeling perturbed or distressed. Sherlock only liked noises that he created, all others were a nuisance.

John, feeling a little spooked and not too certain he wanted to climb the staircase to his own living area, in case Sherlock had created something horrible in their flat that may have cleared the building, decided to check his mobile in case Sherlock or Mrs Hudson had attempted to contact him while he was out.

Nothing.

He listened for any noise in the building, but only heard silence. Deciding to chance it, John headed up the stairs to see what he could learn about the whereabouts of the two people who, under normal circumstances, were always at home.

He found the door to be open when he arrived in front of his and Sherlock's flat. He pushed forward, slowly, and peeked around the door- remembering a time when he would normally just barge right in. Living with Sherlock had taught him a thing or two about caution- as he had found himself being disturbingly surprised at what his flatmate and best friend could create in their shared living space over the time they had lived together. He shuddered as he remembered the day his friend had decided to test the darkness of blood stains on various mediums within a household. It had been 3 months into living with, and knowing Sherlock. Thinking his roommate had been brutally done-in by some rogue burglar; John had called up the Yard and practically screamed for help. As soon as he hung up, Sherlock came running into the living area, looking as dapper as always, and demanded to know what the matter with John was!

Poor John- he made Sherlock call the Yard back and explain himself straight away, before any of the detectives could make it to 221 B. For further punishment, he convinced Sherlock to clean up the blood by threatening to dismantle his beloved violin and then invite Mycroft over for dinner and drinks. Sherlock claimed to know John was bluffing, but after he had cleaned up John caught Sherlock stashing his violin under his armchair cushion- no doubt thinking it would be safer there from John's wrath.

Back to the present. John peeked around the door carefully, and seeing nothing out of place or bloody or burning, proceeded into the room to inspect and draw what conclusions he could from the silence over the house. Everything in the kitchen and living room seem to be in order- nothing out of place in the seeming organized chaos the two men called "home". John let out a small breath of relief, and moved over to sit on the couch and ponder his dilemma for the movie that night. He had about 7 hours to figure out if he should bother to take anyone with him at all or just go it alone.

If he went alone, he wouldn't be interrupted or bothered by anyone trying to talk to him during the movie. Unless, by some lucky chance, a gorgeous woman happened to sit next to him and require an explanation about the characters in the movie- in which case he would be HAPPY to oblige. He snorted. If Sherlock were home, he could tell him the actual percentage chance of THAT ever happening.

John had been noticing over time that Sherlock took great delight in guessing how long John's relationships would last, but he claimed that he had developed a legitimate formula that could accurately predict these things using John's age, the woman's age, and a mix of other factors. Sherlock had been delighted to explain it to John, whereas John found it utterly depressing and preferred to not be told how terrible his chances were of making it last with each woman he dared to tell Sherlock about.

The weird thing is, Sherlock always seemed to be right. He didn't get the exact day down, but Sherlock had been able to tell John, at the beginning of the relationship, when John and the girl-of-the-hour were most likely to split ways. John still wanted to believe Sherlock was simply paying them off, how else could the insufferable git be right the last 4 times. But, John reflected, that also would mean John had very poor taste in women.

It was at this point in his mental world that John realized he had spent entirely too much time thinking about Sherlock, and not enough about his predicament for the evening. Maybe he should just ask Sherlock to go with him, and allow Sherlock to run free in the cinema building while John enjoyed the movie. Perhaps Sherlock would come across a case of some sort to occupy his attention- the case of the too-buttery popcorn, or the mystery of the funky theater smell. Now that is one mystery John had always wondered about.

A ding sounded from his coat pocket, which he had tossed up on the coat rack. John, heaved himself up from the couch and wandered over to his coat, putting the kettle on to boil in the process. He slipped out his mobile, and hit the home button to light the screen.

_Congratulate me. I am a genius. SH_

John- used to his flat mate's ego, decided to wait until after he had made his tea, to respond to his friend's plea for recognition.

_Congratulations. Can you get some sugar on the way home?_

John smirked, knowing he was annoying his friend by not asking for more details, and tossed the phone over to his chair while he fixed a sandwich to eat with his tea. *ding ding* his phone sounded again, and John dragged his food over to the chair and settled himself in, trying to decide if it had been a mistake to answer Sherlock at all.

_How did you know I was coming home? SH_

_Because you asked for my congratulations. Clearly you have achieved something, and you're going to come home and bother me about it. If you bring sugar with you, I'll be in a better mood to humor you, mate. You should know that by now. _

John tucked into his sandwich and sipped his tea, while looking through the morning paper that Sherlock had left lying around (quite literally, lying all over the floor) and waited for his flatmate to deign to respond to his text or simply arrive. Through his exposure to Sherlock and his methods, John had developed his own ability to understand the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. While most people saw a strange creature- all brain and no heart, John saw an emotionally shut-off man who chose to develop his intellect above all other aspects of his personality. That didn't mean Sherlock was bad, or a psychopath. Sherlock simply chose to make his world as black and white as possible. John certainly couldn't blame him. Sometimes he envied Sherlock's simplified responses to life, and though John would get frustrated by Sherlock's lack of communication skills or his total lack of social grace in public, he had to admit John could also be completely amused by Sherlock's interactions with regular people. John suspected Sherlock enjoyed feeling superior among people, but also enjoyed the mental challenging of dealing with all the "idiots" he felt he was surrounded by.

John was brought back to the present by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. So it seemed Sherlock wasn't willing to answer his last text. Good. The man was infuriating when it came to textual conversations.

"John!" the door crashed open with a bang. John was eternally grateful that his time in the military had muted his hearing and given him stern control of his body, but even so he couldn't stop the abrupt twitch in his shoulders as his flat mate surprised him with his loud and dynamic entry.

"Did you bring some sugar?" John asked, eyes scanning over Sherlock's form, trying to look for any bulges in the pockets or under his arm. Seeing nothing of interest, except Sherlock's delectable form in tight clothing, (John had already had his sexuality crisis when he discovered Sherlock, in the nude, roaming around their apartment during the summer months and found himself oddly interested. There followed a tense few months on John's part before he decided to simply accept that he liked Sherlock's body, and he liked Sherlock-it didn't seem as troubling after a while) John returned to reading the paper and reading himself to enjoy his tea sans sugar.

"Honestly, John. I just bought sugar for you!"

"…two months ago… "John interjected.

Sherlock paused, "it seemed like last week" he muttered to himself. John just raised his eyebrows at his friend's inability to keep track of things like time. And grocery shopping. "But anyway, enough pointless chattering" Sherlock pressed on, " I have just solved that blasted case that has been running through my mind these last few days".

"I thought you already solved it and handed it over to the Yard?" John said, bewildered that he missed something that may have been vital to the case they just wrapped up that had involved a sadistically twisted sommelier and his collection of antique wine corks. John always wondered if he could ever get used to the things he encountered while working these cases with his best friend. _Probably not, but why would you want to? Keeps life interesting_ his mind told him. Sometimes John thought, he spent too much time with Sherlock and he just might be losing some of his humanity and morality.

John shook his thoughts and focused back on his friend's feverish ramblings, discerning that he hadn't missed much- simply Sherlock had figured out why the first victim had only been found partially basted in wine, whereas the subsequent 4 victims had been completely marinated and soaked in a fine, red wine. Apparently, the sommelier had not planned on murdering his roommate (the first victim), and the wine basting had happened by accident when the murderer needed to stash the victim. John learned from Sherlock that the sommelier thought it was a nice touch, and sparked his need for a full marinade with the ensuing bodies.

"Well that's grand, mate. Congratulations" John said, and stood up to clap Sherlock on the shoulder, since he knew his friend needed some kind of acknowledgement.

"Thank you, John. It was all terribly simply. For the life of me I do not know how Lestrade can be SO obtuse about these things…" Sherlock grumbled, and


	2. Chapter 2

"On to more important things! Let's go have dinner at Angelos, it's been a while since we stopped in"

John had nothing better to do except think about The Hobbit. Or Sherlock sans clothing. Neither of which seemed to be getting him anywhere- so he popped out of his chair and shambled over to get his coat while Sherlock muttered something and dashed into his room before rejoining John on the stairs. Outside Sherlock flagged a cab and off they went. Sherlock wasn't one for idle chatter, and John had nothing idle to chatter about anyway, so it was a pleasantly quiet cab ride.

Once they arrived, John witnessed a miracle! Sherlock paid the cabbie… he actually dug out his wallet and paid the cabbie before ducking out and onto the sidewalk. John, bewildered, thanked the cabbie and got out to stand with Sherlock. The lanky detective was already on the move inside, where Angelo greeted them, "Ahh, my favorite couple! Out for a night on the town eh? Can't blame you, it's a lovely evening…" he chattered on as he led them to the small table near the window they always ended up sitting at. He lit the candle and promised wine and hurried away. John wondered when he had stopped trying to correct Angelo's misconception that he and Sherlock were a couple. Well, they were a couple of blokes. A couple of friends. Perhaps 'couple' wasn't the wrong word to be using after all.

"John, your lost in your thoughts again. I'd appreciate it if you could snap out of them and join me here to look at the menu" Sherlock quipped.

"I don't need the menu, Sherlock, we come here enough that I know what I'm having" John shot back. That'll teach him to think John wasn't aware of what was going on around him.

"But you have to pick what I'm eating as well, you know more about food and what I'll like" Sherlock replied, the hint of a grin on his face.

"what? You mean…your actually going to eat this time? " John felt so confused, what was going on with his friend?

"Honestly, why do you ask the most pointless questions. It is dinner time, I suggested Angelos, and I am looking at the menu. That should indicate that I am interested in consuming food, yes?" Sherlock whined at him.

"Bloody hell…. Alright, well just HOW hungry are you? A full entrée? Or a mere appetizer will do?" said John.

"Anything will do, I am in need of sustenance" Sherlock blandly responded.

"Bugger… well, I'm having the ravioli so I'll order you something else and we can share if we want what the other is having." John reasoned, thinking he did feel like having some chicken parmesan as well, and knowing Sherlock he would only pick at it and eat a few bites before saying he had overeaten.

"Fine fine…" Sherlock waved his hand at John and put the menu over, then signaled to Angelo they were ready to order.

"The usual?" Angelo queried to John.

"Yes for me, and Sherlock will have the chicken parmesan today" John replied with a smile, and Angelo appeared taken aback.

"Oh he will? Very well, excellent choices I will go and put them in right away and bring back your wine" Angelo headed off to the kitchens. He returned with a nice bottle of red and poured them both a glass and left again.

"So, Sherlock, care to indulge me? What is going on with you tonight?" John pressed, wondering if something was wrong with his dear detective.

"What can you mean, John? I told you everything that was going on, I solved the case, spent the afternoon telling Lestrade everything he and his deplorable squad missed, and came home to my wonderful blogger who did not feel the urge to praise me about my brilliant deductions. Most upsetting, John, I thought you would enjoy hearing about my brilliance."

Wonderfully, their food arrived in the midst of Sherlock's tale, and John was glad to be spared a response in favor of stuffing his face with ravioli. Midway through his third bite, he felt eyes on him and looked up to see his delectable (odd word choice…) detective watching him intently. John quirked an eyebrow, but felt no urge to engage in conversation with Sherlock when there was good food to be eaten, and continued to eat. He noticed that Sherlock hadn't touched his chicken yet. Perhaps he didn't know his detective as well as he thought. Did he like chicken? John was pretty sure he did. In fact, John was pretty certain Sherlock never registered taste as important when eating. Blasted man had probably destroyed his taste buds in some experiment gone wrong in his youth.

However, 5 minutes later John still felt Sherlock eyeing him. So he decided to steal a piece of Sherlock's chicken before bothering to ask what was bothering his genius. Sherlock's chicken tasted delicious. John would consider ordering it for himself next time. By now Sherlock had been staring at him a full 10 minutes, John figured he might as well bite the bullet and ask what was going on inside Sherlock's head.

"Ok, spit it out already- what are you thinking?" John said. He figured direct would be best, but Sherlock always found a way around telling him something directly.

" I'm thinking many things, John" Sherlock replied. John had the distinct impression he was being toyed with. Good thing he was full of delicious food and had some tasty wine to wash it down with. His mood couldn't suffer under the withering stare of one Sherlock Holmes.

" Oh good, glad to see your mind is still up to speed on things" John remarked, and decided he didn't much care what was on Sherlock's mind. He was more interested in finishing his wine and anticipating what to expect at the cinema later. Perhaps he would just go alone since he wasn't at all sure Sherlock would be the best person to take. He might spend the whole time deducing things about the other moviegoers or investigating how many people had shagged in the darkened theater in the past week. John shuddered at that, there were things that were better left alone.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John, he wasn't used to John giving up so easily on his questioning. Something was definitely off with his blogger. Sherlock knew John had gotten tickets to The Hobbit, Sherlock understood John loved the story- he had swiped an old, battered copy from among John's possessions when he first moved in with Sherlock, because Sherlock could see from the worn spine and well-read pages, that it was important to John. Sherlock figured he could learn something about the kind of person John was from reading the book. Also, he hadn't read fiction in such a long time, since grade school really, and thought it might be a good laugh. What Sherlock didn't expect was to fall in love with the story, and wonder about those poor people and creatures of Middle Earth. Whoever Tolkien was, he had certainly created something amazing. Sherlock was almost envious (being not much into emotions, he couldn't be completely envious) all Sherlock ever managed to do was destroy or disassemble stories, cover-ups, and ruses.

Now, as he looked at John, he desperately wanted to go see The Hobbit with him that night, but would John want Sherlock there? Would he invite him? Or did he have some ridiculous date planned, some woman with sub-par intelligence and no wit who would just want to talk during the movie or leave early to go somewhere else. But, Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to outright tell John he had fallen in love with the story. Also, he wouldn't mind spending time just sitting near John in the dark theater and hearing and seeing John's reactions to the story unfolding. He had grown to love the smell of John, his John – a mix of clean aftershave, toothpaste, and a warm smell that Sherlock hadn't catalogued yet, but knew he infinitely enjoyed. Like a cat with catnip. It was Sherlock's new drug. His favorite drug. Therefore, he took every chance to be near John and attempt to smell him.

John would never realize that Sherlock wanted to go with him, so Sherlock had grabbed John's copy of The Hobbit from its new home in Sherlock's room, and brought it along to give back to John as an unspoken admittance of his theft as well as to introduce the topic of the story and movie plans for that night. He reached into his pocket and pulled the book out- and placed it on the table in front of John, then sat back to watch John's mind work things out. Another of his favorite things to do around John.

John, for his part, was fairly astonished. Of all the things he thought Sherlock would have in a coat pocket, a copy of The Hobbit wasn't one of those things. Not by a long shot. And, hang on….that very much looked like HIS copy of The Hobbit. Well, that bastard. John had wondered where his copy had got to, thought he had lost it when he moved.

"Sherlock…." John started, "why did you take my book, and keep it for so long?"


End file.
